Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning?
by flashpenguin
Summary: On the 10th anniversary of 9-11, the team reflects on memories of that day and how it changed their lives in more ways than one. Dedicated to everyone fighting the war on terror. TEAM FIC! NO PAIRINGS!


_Just my drabble at what thoughts are going thru the teams' head during the anniversary of 9-11. _

_Dedicated to all of my brothers and sisters in arms (law enforcement and military alike). You are NOT FORGOTTEN!_

**Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning?**

_**Song prompt: "Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)?" by Alan Jackson**_

Sitting in his living room with the lights off and a large bottle of scotch, Dave Rossi watched the fire burn in the fireplace from his position on the couch. It was where he always sat on this day. It was his consolation for all that had been lost. No matter what his schedule, and no matter what else was happening, he always made sure to clear his calendar for September 11th.

He knew that there was nothing he could do to change things, and living in the past wasn't going to make his heart move forward, but for twenty four hours, he wanted to shut the world out and grieve the best way he knew how.

It had been ten years. Ten long years since the world as he knew it had come to an end…yet, it seemed like yesterday. And the memory was still so raw. He hadn't had the luxury of watching it on TV, no, he had literally been there. And worse, he had almost been on one of the planes that day.

He had been in NYC for two days trying to work out his latest true crime book with his editor when he looked down at his watch and noticed the time. He was late and tried to get out of the office when the news came over the radio that something had happened in lower Manhattan. From the high rise, he had seen the smoke rising and heard the sirens, and he felt the helplessness.

He barely remembered what he was thinking when the news came on that the towers had fallen. Collapsed. Gone.

But he would never forget the sound of silence that greeted him as he and everyone else evacuated the publishing building. He still got a weird sensation when he thought about how there was no sound in the streets. It was like a scene out of a bad sci-fi movie. And for a second, he thought maybe it _was _a movie and that this was nothing but the special effects.

But it wasn't.

He could still hear the sound of his heart beating in his ears as he ushered the women down the dust covered streets to safety. His car was gone, but that was the least of his worries. And he wondered when he might be able to get his briefcase back. He didn't care about his manuscript, but he wanted his laptop. At least he still had his cell phone.

Walking back to his hotel in a daze, he had a vague memory of the concierge greeting him solemnly. There was weeping all around. And the TVs in the lobby were filled with the non-stop coverage. He just wanted to get to his room and take a shower.

A dozen times he tried to call his mother and let her know that he was alright, but the phone lines were down. All he could do was sit on the side of the bed and pray. And get drunk. The little bottles the hotel provided in the fridge weren't enough to make a bird drunk, but it was enough to provide a good numb. And give him a couple of hours of sleep.

But sleep was elusive because how could he sleep when everything already felt like a bad dream? He couldn't wake up from the nightmare called reality, and he couldn't sleep due to the nightmares. It was the original Catch-22. And everyone was living it.

By the next afternoon, he was able to call his mother. When she heard his voice, her sobs had been so strong she could barely get the words out. All she said was "Thank you, God. Thank you, Holy Mother." He sat on the bed listening to her send prayers of thanks to God that her son was alive and safe in Italian and English.

Later, when people had the courage to venture out, he made his way up to the cathedral. He knew it was going to be packed, but he didn't care. He wanted to go to Mass…no he _needed _to go to Mass. His faith was still there - despite the evil unleashed - but it was shaken and he needed to reaffirm it. He needed that solace.

In the quiet sanctuary of the church, he let the heavenly voices of the choir wash over him as the smell of burning candles and incense weaved around him. He held the hands of the young woman and the old man standing next to him.

And he wept.

He did what he could to help, but the help that was needed was not his specialty. He manned the phones and helped direct the news crews for the latest story. But it was all he could do not to lose his mind. He had never felt so helpless and useless. And if there was one thing Dave Rossi wasn't, it was helpless and useless. Once reinforcements came in by bus, he relinquished his desk job and went back to his hotel to grieve.

Three days later, he rented a car and drove from New York to DC. And from there, he picked up his car, picked up Mudgie, and made his way to the little cabin at Little Creek. But nothing would ever erase that horror of carnage that littered the streets and the smell of jet fuel and death. Not even his beloved woods had that power.

A week later, he stepped out into the sunshine…and into his third marriage.

He needed no reminders on how that day changed everyone's lives. It deepened his faith in people and his country. It strengthened his resolve to bring justice to criminals. And it reinforced the knowledge that there was evil that needed to be stopped.

It was the main reason he decided to go back to the FBI.

He had made changes in his life since September 11th. Some of them were good. Others he wished he could go back and change. But it made him who he was now.

Pouring the bottle again, he filled the glass and sipped slowly. He didn't so much rely on liquor to get him thru the day any longer; he considered it a drink in the memory of those who had lost their lives in the name of terror. A toast to his brothers and sisters in arms - law enforcement and military alike. As he sipped, he made his eternal vow that he would do his best to bring _all_ criminals to justice…if it was the last thing he did.

As the fire crackled, he closed his eyes.

And he prayed.


End file.
